


Let Me Help you

by Wicked42



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Protective Catra, Sickfic, Whump, catra has cramps, protective adora, shadow weaver is a manipulative bitch, training scenario gone wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 09:16:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20992388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wicked42/pseuds/Wicked42
Summary: Catra gasped, stumbling over bare feet as she slammed to her knees. Her breaths sounded like the gulps of a dying animal, and she immediately hunched over herself, shuddering. “S-Shit. Knew I should have called out today.”Adora chuckled humorlessly. There was no “calling out,” not in the Horde. Not unless you wanted to admit you were sick, and then they’d slam you in solitary so you wouldn’t affect anyone else. Sometimes for days, sometimes upwards of a week.No food. No company.No luck.-----------(Or, Adora protects Catra during a Horde training session... and Catra isn't okay with the consequences.)Set a couple years before all their drama goes down, back when they're still friends in the Fright Zone.





	Let Me Help you

**Author's Note:**

> Based on Alettepegasus's prompt: things i like include adora pushing herself to protect others/catra when she really can't physically handle it
> 
> Me: oh yeah. That's good stuff.

<strike></strike>“We’ve received reports that the princesses are banding together,” the drill sergeant droned, stalking past them. They were in a group of ten or so, shoved into a group of strange cadets Adora had only ever seen in the hallways before now. Next year, they’d be divvied into teams, but those teammates depended on how they meshed this year.

Adora risked a glance at Catra as the drill sergeant stalked past. To a casual observer, she probably looked normal, expression distant, stance radiating boredom.

But Adora wasn’t fooled. She didn’t miss the way Catra shuddered, a bare tremble, as another wave of pain washed over her. She didn’t miss the sick pallor of her skin, or the glazed look in her eyes.

She wasn’t okay. Adora set her jaw and turned back to the huge metal doors that loomed before them. The other cadets shifted, anxious, but not Adora. No, her form was full of intention.

The intention of keeping Catra alive through this training session. 

The drill sergeant reached the end of the line, then spun on his heel to glower at them. “Lord Hordak has adjusted the curriculum, and you will respond accordingly. Inside, there will not be one or two princesses. You will not simply face the pathetic queen of the Rebellion.”

Catra inhaled through her nose, her eyes slipping shut as she swayed. Adora flinched, fighting the urge to reach out and steady her. But they were two paces from each other, standing on the metal circles that dictated starting positions. If Adora helped her now, the drill sergeant would know Catra was sick. Weak.

And the Horde didn’t take kindly to weakness.

Catra seemed to realize it, too, because she stiffened, going ramrod straight, hazy eyes locked on the door.

Adora could nearly _see_ her losing a battle with consciousness, fighting to stay awake, stay alert. Stay alive. Adora clenched her fists around her weapon, a staff every cadet was carrying.

Well, every cadet but the one with nails sharper than daggers.

Not that it’d matter today.

“No, cadets. Inside, you will face the might of this princess ‘alliance,’” the drill sergeant used air quotations, accompanied with the roll of his eyes. But his candor vanished as he locked gazes with each of them. “Show me you can survive.”

Catra’s shoulders hunched, one hand curling around her stomach as another wave of trembles rocked her thin form. But then the metal doors groaned opened, and the drill sergeant shouted, “Go, go, go!” and the cadets surged forward in a panicked, uncoordinated mass.

Adora grabbed Catra’s arm, feeling the slick of sweat that matted Catra’s velvety fur. Her grip tightened with purpose as Catra careened forward, nearly slipping to the floor, but Adora kept her upright.

“Come on!” And she towed her inside the training room.

The heavy metal doors slammed closed behind them, and smoke filled the room, obscuring everything as the bots attacked the other cadets. High, high above, dark faces loomed against thick, dusty glass: superiors, gauging the troops below. But Adora and Catra had snuck into the observation room a few months ago; Adora knew for a fact the windows were too cloudy to see much, and the smoke of battle made them even harder to track.

She also knew of one particular blind spot behind a massive metal pole towards the outskirts of the room. That’s where she dragged Catra now, roughly, not giving her friend a chance to fade.

Not yet.

“Here,” Adora whispered as they ducked against the pillar. It wasn’t very protected, but in the training room, _hidden _was better than nothing.

Catra gasped, stumbling over bare feet as she slammed to her knees. Her breaths sounded like the gulps of a dying animal, and she immediately hunched over herself, shuddering. “S-Shit. Knew I should have called out today.”

Adora chuckled humorlessly. There was no “calling out,” not in the Horde. Not unless you wanted to admit you were sick, and then they’d slam you in solitary so you wouldn’t affect anyone else. Sometimes for days, sometimes upwards of a week.

No food. No company.

No luck.

“It’ll pass,” she whispered, but she didn’t know for sure. They’d endured their bleeding cycles for years, but lately Catra’s hit like a hot poker in the stomach. Even now, the pain rippled off her friend in devastating waves, and Adora watched helplessly as Catra dug her sharp nails into the metal flooring, eyes clenched tight.

“’S bad this week,” she hissed.

Adora could tell.

“We’ll stay here for a bit,” Adora said instead, casting a dubious glance around the metal pillar.

Catra coughed a laugh. “Sure. Just until the bots notice us.”

“They’re a bit preoccupied.”

Catra’s tail curled around her legs as she hunched into herself, pressing her forehead against the cold metal floor. Her words were strained. “You saw that group. I bet they don’t last—_fuck_—t-ten minutes.”

Their commanding shouts had already turned into frightened screams. Adora positioned herself in a crouch over Catra’s shivering form, brandishing her staff. “We’ll get through this,” she said, confidently, even as her heart thumped against her ribs and sweat beaded down her face.

Catra couldn’t even reply. She just shuddered again, ears flat against her skull.

The minutes ticked by, the echoes of an explosive fight swelling and fading like rain during a thunderstorm. Adora’s grip was sweaty on her staff, eyes flicking left and right. They may be hidden from their commanding officers, but it was still too exposed. And the bots had heat sensors—one peek around the pillar and the smoke wouldn’t matter. They’d be spotted.

But Catra was wrong. The other cadets lasted twenty-two minutes. Twenty-two lousy minutes, where Adora watched helplessly as Catra tried and failed to straighten, to sit upright, to say something without gasping. The screams quieted to moans, and the smoke obscuring the room dissipated a bit.

On the twenty-third minute, the bots went hunting.

As they thudded closer, Adora pushed into a defensive stance, positioning herself over Catra’s prone form. Catra hissed displeasure, staggering upright herself. “I can f-fight,” she panted, but her eyes were glassy and she had to brace herself against the pillar.

“Stay _down_,” Adora snapped, voice barely audible. “Just get yourself together for the walk back to the barracks.”

Catra sunk back to the floor, clenching her eyes shut.

The fact that she didn’t argue further made Adora grind her teeth, determination freezing her veins like ice. They covered for each other, protected each other, because if they didn’t, no one else would. And without Catra, Adora would have died too many times to count. It wasn’t often she could return the favor, but she’d be damned if Catra got hurt in this state.

And if it was just one bot, or two, they’d have managed.

Adora might have incapacitated them both, making swift work of their flickering princess holograms as their cores exploded in a spectacular display. She might have yanked Catra up just long enough for the drill sergeant to stroll into the wreckage and see them triumphant, then sequestered her away in one of the Fright Zone’s abandoned closets. She might have stolen some hot water from the cafeteria and procured one of their sweeter ration bars, then let Catra curl against her stomach while they waited for the cramps to pass.

None of that happened.

What happened was _seven _bots, their fake “princess alliance,” surrounded them in seconds. Catra paled, grabbed Adora’s arm so tightly pinpricks of blood welled around her nails. Her voice seized in palpable fear.

“Adora, _run_!”

But that was absurd. Catra couldn’t run, and they were a pair.

Adora brandished the staff and narrowed her eyes.

No matter what, Catra would be fine.

* * *

“_Where is she_?”

Catra braced herself over Adora’s bloodied form, fur bristling, sweat dripping from her hair as she hissed. Her heart still pounded—minutes ago, the final bot’s flickering, snarling princess glared at Adora as its gun warmed. Minutes ago, Catra had staggered to her feet where she’d been thrown against the wall, listening in dread to the building screech of plasma as Adora pushed to her elbows, then collapsed in a wet squick of blood.

Catra would have been too late. She knew it, the same way she knew that dangerous flicker in her chest whenever Adora grinned or laughed or rubbed her ears wasn’t just _friendship_. Adora was going to die, and Catra would be too late_._

But then dangerous shadows edged around the room, and instantly the bot went limp.

Shot unfired.

Catra lunged to Adora, her insides ripping themselves apart as she collapsed over her friend, shaking her shoulders. Adora was covered in blood and burns, her stupid, _useless_ staff discarded several meters away. Her steely eyes fluttered as she smiled at Catra.

Blood leaked from the corner of her mouth.

“M-Made it,” she breathed, hoarsely.

Catra choked on a sob. “Shadow Weaver’s coming. Just hold on—”

And that’s when the woman bellowed across the training room. The other cadets, beaten and bloody but slowly recovering, scrambled to salute as Shadow Weaver glided into the room. Her white eyes were wild, her words piercing.

“I said, _where is she_?”

“Here,” Catra gasped, shuddering. She wasn’t even sure if it was bone-wracking pain or hysterical fear anymore. “She’s over here!”

Adora’s eyes slipped into her skull.

Fear shot up Catra’s spine, and she shook Adora harder. Blood leaked from the wounds on her chest, her shoulder, her stomach, her arm—too much blood, too many bruises. Her breath seemed to rattle in her chest.

Catra whimpered. “No, no. No, you’re okay. You have to be okay.”

Shadow Weaver finally arrived, and for a breath, Catra felt unbridled relief. It was the first time in years she felt sheer _gratitude _for the woman’s appearance, and an explanation tumbled from her lips:

“The bots weren’t on the right mode. They—They tried to kill her, and she couldn’t fight them all—”

“Couldn’t fight them?” Shadow Weaver snarled, eyes narrowed to slits, and in that terrible instant Catra realized the witch hadn’t been shouting for Adora.

No, she’d been shouting for _Catra._

“Tell me, child. Whose fault was that?” Shadow Weaver’s long, claw-like fingertips snatched Catra’s uniform, and in one swift motion, she hauled the feline off the ground. Catra barely had time to brace before the woman’s hand connected with her cheek.

Pain _exploded_, and the only relief was that it took focus from her excruciating cramps.

Catra crumpled beside Adora, and Shadow Weaver loomed over them. Adora was _bleeding out _at her feet, but the freaking witch only had eyes for Catra. Catra gripped her aching cheek, fighting the furious tears that stung her eyes.

Shadow Weaver’s words were measured now, yet still sharp with fury. “Those bots were supposed to push you to your limits. Instead, you cowered, forcing _Adora _to react appropriately. If there is anything to blame for her present condition, it is not the training exercise.”

The blood drained from Catra’s face.

Because the worst part was, she was right.

Fury warred with fear as she struggled to her feet, swallowing a groan as another wave of pain clenched her stomach. She had a thousand things to say to Shadow Weaver, starting with _what the hell _and ending with _fucking die_, but then her foot brushed a wet spot and Catra’s gaze flicked down to see her toes stained red with Adora’s blood, and everything she longed to say _vanished_.

Because none of it mattered now.

“P-Please. Save her. _Please._”

Shadow Weaver narrowed her eyes, but after a long, terrible beat, waved her fingers in an unspoken order. Two sergeants, men Catra hadn’t seen before, hurried over with a stretcher, and soon Adora was gone.

Catra hunched as another wave of pain hit, tears leaking from her eyes. It was partly circumstance, mostly hatred, that had her glaring at Shadow Weaver’s smoky feet.

“You are responsible for this,” Shadow Weaver said, in the deathly quiet of the empty training room. Even with the mask, Catra didn’t miss the derision in her tone, the sneer of her lips. “Never forget that you endanger Adora simply by being alive.”

And then she waved a hand once more, and Catra stiffened under her magic’s bite. Paralyzed. Black magic licked her cheeks in shadowy tendrils, almost like a malicious caress, and fear prickled along her arms.

“You’ll have plenty of time in solitary to think about what you’ve done.”

This time, when Catra shuddered, it wasn’t in pain. 

* * *

Adora didn’t know how much time had passed.

To be honest, she didn’t know much of anything, except that Catra should be safe. It was a lifeline she clung to, a solid thought in a sea of pain. _Catra was okay. _The bots shouldn’t have seen her, and she could emerge from the training exercise successful, albeit bruised.

It didn’t matter what pain Adora was in. Satisfaction and gratitude still swirled in her mind, even in unconsciousness.

At least until someone roughly dumped her onto a thin, hard mattress.

She wheezed as the movement incited her body, every limb on fire. It curled around her mind and squeezed, until she couldn’t move, couldn’t think. She tried to scream, but her mouth wasn’t working either—all that emerged was a strangled groan.

Heavy footsteps thudding away from her.

The slam of a metal door.

Darkness.

Pain.

Adora tried to crack open her eyes, but they felt crusty, glued together. Everything about her body was heavy and weighted, and it incited a fresh wave of panic. Weakness. It was nothing short of debilitating, and in the Fright Zone, that was never a good thing.

The mattress she was on dipped slightly, and Adora tensed for a fight.

And then a quiet voice, weary and exhausted, said, “Adora? You awake?”

_Catra_.

Adora wrenched open her eyes, moaning when they ached like everything else, tiny pinpricks that burned when she glanced sideways. Catra’s outline was barely visible in the darkness, but she saw the ears, the swaying tail, the gleaming eyes.

Wait. Not gleaming. Glistening.

Suddenly, Adora’s wounds weren’t the worst ache. She shoved the rest of her pain deep down, contained it in a nice, comfy box, and wrestled upright. “C-Catra?” Her voice was barely a wheeze, rough with disuse. How long was she out?

But she didn’t ask that. What she said instead was, “Are you okay?”

She meant it to be comforting, but Catra’s demeanor shifted immediately. Her fangs bared in a snarl and her ears pressed against her skull. “Don’t. Don’t you _dare _ask me that.”

Um.

Adora’s brow knitted together. “What?”

“Don’t. You. Dare,” Catra hissed.

Adora stared at her blankly, wondering if maybe whatever injured her left a concussion, too. She must have looked pretty pathetic trying to figure it out, because Catra shoved upright, stalking past Adora’s bunk bed to slam her fist into the metal wall.

“You fucking jerk,” Catra snapped, but she kept her eyes trained on the wall. Frustration emanated from her stance, and then—it all collapsed. Her shoulders hunched, and she trembled, a bare outline against the darkness. “You asshole. I told you I’d be fine. But you just _had _to play the hero, didn’t you?”

Adora struggled to remember anything beyond the bots. The training session. She had to protect Catra… because Catra couldn’t do it herself. And there weren’t many days where Catra couldn’t rally to complete a simple training session.

There weren’t many days Adora got to support her the way Catra always did.

But something told her admitting that wouldn’t earn favors. Instead, she dropped back against her pillow, a lumpy thing with barely any support, and inhaled shakily as her wounds flared to life. They’d been bandaged, treated, but she knew this game. It wasn’t the wounds that would kill her.

It was the infection that might come after.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

And she was.

She knew firsthand how terrifying it was to have these positions reversed.

Catra’s claws scraped the metal in a screeching sound that made them both flinch. She whirled on Adora, eyes shining. “Don’t do it again. _Ever_. I’m not helpless, and I don’t—” now she choked, falling silent for a breath. Just long enough to regain her composure before she finished, icily. “I don’t need you.”

It hurt more than Adora expected.

J-Just a reflex. Right? She couldn’t really mean that. They only survived in the Fright Zone by relying on each other. Without Catra, Adora would have fallen apart years ago. She had to believe Catra was the same.

But Catra narrowed her eyes, letting the words fester between them. Then, without a word, she stalked towards the door.

She was leaving.

She couldn’t _leave_.

Panic raced through Adora, and adrenaline swept her veins as she shoved upright, swung her legs off the bed. “Wait. _Wait—_” but the words ended in a strangled choke as her wounds ignited once more, slamming her down more effectively than a plasma bolt to the face. Adora hunched over her knees, gripping the most painful wound on her stomach with desperation. It felt as though her insides were spilling between her fingers—but no, that was just blood.

The wound had reopened.

At the door, Catra stopped. Her tail flicked in agitation, one ear swiveling towards Adora’s gasps.

It didn’t matter. None of this mattered. If Catra walked out that door, left her alone, Adora would die. Without help binding the wounds, without stolen medicine to stave off infection, Adora’s body wouldn’t survive the week.

But if she walked out right now, Adora’s mind might not survive the night.

“C-Catra, _please_,” she begged, clenching her jaw so hard her temples ached. But despite the blood, the wounds, the obvious fact that she should not be standing, Adora pushed upright. Her hand left a bloody print on the metal bedframe, tacky and cold, as she staggered after Catra. “Pl-ease—”

Catra’s shoulders hunched to her ears, which were pressed so tightly against her skull Adora couldn’t even see them anymore. But it didn’t hide the anguish in her voice. “I don’t need you, and you sure as hell don’t need me. What the fuck were we thinking? There aren’t _friends _in the Fright Zone.”

“Says who?” Adora rasped.

“Everyone! Shit, Adora, haven’t you noticed no one else has paired off?” Now Catra whirled back to her, and even though her anger was a tangible thing, relief swelled in Adora’s chest. She hadn’t left. As long as she stayed in this room, there was hope.

She pushed away from the support of the bedframe. If she could just _reach _Catra, everything would be fine.

Catra was still ranting. “And guess what? None of them almost died in some stupid, self-centered act of idiocy, either.”

“It doesn’t _matter_.”

Catra stilled, eyes flashing in the dim light. “What?”

Adora took another shaky step forward, but her vision was blurring, her balance unsteady. But this was important. Her world was fading, but she managed to force the words out: “Catra, you’re my best friend. I’m always going to fight for you.”

“Well, _stop it_. I don’t need—”

Adora didn’t hear what she didn’t need, because the next thing she knew, she was on the ground, cradled in Catra’s wiry arms. The feline was literally hissing, fangs glinting in the dim light as the second half of her sentence filtered into Adora’s hazy mind, “—real smart, sure. This is what I’m talking about, Adora. We make each other _stupid_. You know what you’d be doing if I weren’t here? Sleeping.”

“No,” Adora mumbled. “I wouldn’t. I’d be f-finding you.”

“Uh huh. Sure,” she replied, flatly.

Adora tried to reinforce it, but her words dissolved into a groan instead. Catra didn’t understand. Why didn’t she understand? All this time, Adora thought they shared one unspoken agreement: that they needed each other. And now, for some reason, Catra didn’t seem to care about that anymore.

Or believe it anymore.

Adora grabbed her hand, unintentionally smearing her blood on Catra’s fingers. The feline stiffened, but Adora powered through, blinking blearily. “Do you r-really think I would l-let you leave?”

She could barely see Catra’s features, but by the way she scoffed, the exasperation in her tone, told Adora clearly as anything that a blush had bloomed across her cheeks.

“Considering you can barely make it two steps right now, I’d say you aren’t that stupid, but—” she broke off, fangs glinting again as she grinned.

“Hey.” Adora rolled her head to the side, her shoulders still supported by Catra’s arm behind her back, and weakly gestured toward the bunk. “That was at l-least three steps.”

Catra’s short laugh was a little unsteady, but the dark cloud overhead seemed to _finally _dissipate.

“I was right. You’re a verified moron.”

“Yeah, yeah.” A pleasant warmth spread through her at the familiar insult. “I think—” pain cut through her side, and she winced, eyes squeezing shut. Her reply was breathy, pained. “—think you’re f-forgetting who saved you—”

It was meant as a joke, just another way they teased each other. But maybe she shouldn’t have said it with her blood all over Catra’s hands and shirt. The feline’s arms tightened around her shoulders, and she unconsciously drove the tips of her claws into Adora’s muscle.

The pinpricks of pain were nothing compared to the agonizing fire of her other wounds, but Adora couldn’t help think, distantly_, Yeah, probably deserved that_.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” Catra said, her quiet fury slicing Adora like a knife.

Adora laughed, but it sounded wet. “You d-don’t have to. You’re always helping me. Y-You gotta let me return the f-favor.” Her breath hitched as another wave of pain coursed through her abdomen. Oh, she did not feel good. But that felt too heavy, too important, hanging between them like some insane declaration, so she added, “‘S only fair.”

Catra was silent for a long time.

When she replied, her tone was almost wry. “Whatever.”

The word sounded faint. Or maybe everything was getting faint, now.

“—get back in bed,” Catra said.

Adora had a feeling she was missing most of that sentence, but really couldn’t bring herself to care. She found herself being pulled upright, something that did not improve the overall pain situation, and tried to focus on something other than her floating body as Catra half dragged, half carried her back to the hard mattress.

Once Catra was sure she wouldn’t roll off the bed, she pulled back. Fear raced through Adora—she couldn’t leave again, could she? After all that?—and she desperately grappled for her shirt. She would have missed it, but Catra’s hand caught hers instead.

Her ears were roaring, the room getting even darker than it was before, but Adora managed to gasp, “W-Wait. Don’t go.”

Catra’s grip tightened on her hand. The drying blood felt crusty, and her claws brushed Adora’s skin.

Catra heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Fine.” Something brushed away the hair that was starting to stick to her sweaty forehead. Adora shivered. Catra sounded begrudging. “I’ll stay. But for the record, I think this is stupid.”

“I think it’s p-perfect,” Adora said, and realized that sounded a little delirious. Was she delirious? There was a pretty solid chance. Adora shuddered a sigh, slumping into the unforgiving mattress. “I—t-think I need medicine.”

“What was your first clue?”

But Catra didn’t pull away from the bed.

Adora dropped her hand back to the mattress, feeling a thousand years old. “Y-You can leave for t-that.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“But you have to come right back.”

“Yeah, I got that part.” Adora could practically hear her eyes rolling. “Get some sleep, you idiot.”

Adora’s eyes were already drooping, her consciousness being lulled deeper into the darkness. The pain faded as awareness slipped away, but before everything went dark, she heard Catra whisper, “I like you too.”

Adora fell asleep with a smile on her lips. 

**Author's Note:**

> I got to the end of this fic and was like, "AND I'M TIRED SO WE'RE DONE YAYYYY" and [Woppy ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alettepegasus/pseuds/alettepegasus) was like, Um, ok, but what if you did this instead. And then she fucking wrote the ending for me. Which was divine and fantastic and I am in her debt. 
> 
> BOW DOWN TO HER GREATNESS.


End file.
